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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563662">pabst blue ribbon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx'>xXstaystillXx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Puppy Play, if i have to call it that</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:47:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563662</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The tag jingles against the collar's buckles with every step he takes, jingly little sound that makes you think of dog parks, animals loping across the lawn after tennis balls. “How about this— don’t keep that stick jammed so far up your ass.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Mikey Way, Gerard Way/Mikey Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pabst blue ribbon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>old draft that didnt get the most rigorous edit (im very burnt out on mcr). not an ambitious au, just one where these three met when they were in highschool</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They go into it whooping and hollering, just as they do for the rest of life: tumbling all arms and legs out the side door of your car, a beer bottle shattering on the blacktop and driving slivers of glass into the thick heel of Mikey’s boot. Frank’s voice arcing and bouncing over the empty parking lot. <i>Gee, C’mon, we’re gonna pet the cats, Gee. </i> </p><p>“Can guys try and act a little more drunk?” you say, dryly, as you put the car in park. Frank mashes his face against the driver’s side window and blows a raspberry into the glass. His cheeks puff out grotesquely; you open the door and knock him sprawling on his ass. </p><p>“Jerkoff,” he says from the pavement, but he’s grinning. </p><p>Mikey calls for you two to Hurry the fuck up already, jee-zus, he’s gonna go in without you. You tell him to be your guest. Frank reels to his feet and dashes off, shoestrings slapping his ankles, black hair picking up glints and flashes of red from the evil-eye neon “PetsMart” sign. Strip-mall kind of glamour to it. If someone was lurking around in the bushes with a wide-lens camera that was their chance for a front-page photo. </p><p>For the benefit of this imaginary photographer, you say, out-loud: “Missed it.” </p><p>“What?” asks Frank. He’s standing on the curb. His bangs are blown the wrong direction. Mikey’s nowhere to be seen—must have made good on his threat. </p><p>“I said tie your shoes, idiot.” </p><p>He rolls his eyes and kicks off his shoes so they lay abandoned and deflated without his feet, dead center in the handicap spot. </p><p>“There,” he says. “You coming or what?” </p><p>You start to tell him you’re just gonna wait by the car— listen to the hot, twisted metal under the hood pop and click as it cools, smoke a few cigarettes where no one’s gonna care if they see you— but you catch a glimpse of Mikey; a scraggly grey stickman in the sliding doors’ technicolor-fake television screen. He’s making a beeline for the carts. You know in your gut that if you don’t go breathing down their neck something large and breakable will be in pieces very, very soon. </p><p>“Christ,” you mutter. Just for the sake of it. “Hold on, I’m coming.” </p><p>By the time you look up from stubbing your cigarette— longest fucking butt you’ve ever left— Frank’s vanished, too. </p><p>A spaceship <i>whishh</i> of the doors as you approach; got that sci-fi sort of feel to it, humidity beading up the metal between the plates of glass just from the inside versus outside temperature change. You've never liked this store. It puts you on edge. God knows why the kids are so crazy about it ("the kids" an unpleasant phrase in your mind, maternal, as if you've been assigned as a surrogate parent to those two idiots). You hunt around a little, uneasily, spooking an employee: some ponytail-sweet teenage girl who was clearly stoned into another dimension and physically jumped when you asked her if she’d seen two boys—about yay-high— dressed ‘n black ‘n shit? No? Thank you, sorry. </p><p>You find them in the fish isle. Jeweltone Beta fish floating in cups the size of Tupperware containers, monolithic semicircle of tanks edged in black plastic, greens and blues and speck of orange; Frank, kneeling in the basket of the cart with his face up against a tank full of angelfish, tapping on the glass to make them flutter. Mikey's leaning on the pushbar and talking in a low, rushed tone. </p><p>"Step off about this, it's not your fucking deal, he isn't gonna—"</p><p>"How is it not my <i>deal</i>?" Frank says, much louder than your brother. Mikey pushes his bangs back from his face and begins to respond, before he sees you standing next to the rack of canned fish food. His shoulders hunch, he leans more weight on his elbows. The cart squeaks forward about an inch. "What?" he says. Faintly accusatory. He may as well have a thought bubble drifting above his head: <i>act casual</i>. </p><p>Frank turns and grins at you. When he moves to sit— arms slung over the edge of the cart, head knocking the baby seat— the rips in his jeans give you a clear view of the pink waffled wire-pattern pressed into his knees. You have the brief impulse to ask him if he bought them that torn up. He says, "Finally. Help us find the cats, Mikes thinks they're in the back corner but we've looked in fucken' all the corners—"</p><p>—-</p><p>You land in a playground, after. Stray gravel grinding under your tires, big, boxy plastic shapes like a Seuss cartoon. Soon as you stop the car Mikey hops out like someone’s pushed him. Frank doesn’t.</p><p>“You coming?” </p><p>“Gimme a second.” He starts crunching around with a plastic bag or something in the back. Mikey’s already sprinting across the playground, kicking up rocks as he goes. He gets himself tangled around the jungle gym before you even get out of the car, sneakers hanging down, bars dug in under his armpits and chin. Those loose stickman arms and legs. </p><p>He sees you coming his way and says “Get up here, man," grinning. You’re not sure how he managed to monkey up there so quick when he’s got his fifth beer tipped-over and foaming into the gravel by his feet. </p><p>You crack open a beer of your own, your first, because apparently you’re the designated-fucking-driver for a pair of lost boys nowdays. That’s not to say you’re entirely sober; you’ve been hitting a dipstick you keep in the glovebox at every other stoplight from here to your house. Question: What’s the difference between drunk driving and driving so stoned it feels like your palms are coated with down? Answer: If you know what you’re doing, only the first one gets you killed.</p><p>“Not feeling real suicidal.” </p><p>“Pussy. It’s like, three foot high.” </p><p>“Three?” you ask. You’re having to crane your neck up to look him in the face.</p><p>He tips his chin sideways so it rolls along the bar. “Five.”</p><p>“Six,” you say.</p><p>“Seveneightnineten,” he says, “see, we both know how to count.” </p><p>You kick the bottom of one of his sneakers and he almost falls backwards going for your shin in return. “Where'd Thing Two go?” </p><p>He shrugs. “Probably dead in a ditch somewhere. Right, Frankie?”</p><p>“Right,” from behind you; you turn around and there, smiling how only he can— both utterly wicked and utterly delighted with himself— is Frank, wearing a jet-black dog’s collar and leash. </p><p>You blink. In your head, your eyelids smacking together makes a cartoony <i>thibk-thibk</i>. “The fuck did you get that?” </p><p>Mikey, over your head, in your ear; "He stole your wallet." </p><p>"<i>What?</i>" </p><p>Unbothered— grinning right along with Frank, damn him— he digs in his front pocket and pulls out your wallet, tosses it into your lap. It feels about ten bucks lighter than it used to be. </p><p>“Cool, yeah?” Frank says. He twirls the grab-loop end of the leash around his wrist a few times, a miniature prop plane propeller. It’s too big. Even tightened to the smallest hole so that a tongue of canvas sticks out to the side, the collar it jostles and shifts around his neck as he toys with the leash. Must have been made for bigger dogs than him; looks like the kind of thing people buy for their Mastiffs, their Doberman Pinschers. </p><p>Mikey laughs out loud. He stands up in the jungle gym so his torso is sticking out of one of the glassless metal windows, bent at the waist, knees knocking the bars. “Shit, I told you to get the toy-dog one. You look like you’re wearing a fucking bike tire.” </p><p>“The <i>poodle</i> ones? Pink and rhinestones is your kinda look.” He climbs onto the jungle gym himself. When he sits, he’s almost eyelevel to you. Almost, not quite. “Bet Gerard thinks it’s cool. Back me up here, dude.” </p><p>He grins wider and twirls the leash again, like he’s daring you to grab it. In your head, uncomfortably clear, you see yourself taking up the leash; you see yourself slipping a finger under the too-loose collar and tugging on it hard enough to unbalance him, bring him spilling forward into the ground at your feet. You don’t do either. You sit down so you don’t have to look directly at him anymore. </p><p>“You look like a tool,” you say, simply. Mikey cracks up, big, drunken giggles that roll around in the air long after he’s finished— every place you go tonight seems to have eerily good acoustics, keeps throwing you back to yourselves. </p><p>“Aw, fuckoff.” He doesn’t really seem bothered. “It just needs some spikes.” </p><p>“Make you a killer guard dog,” Mikey says, as he makes a grab for your beer and gets the bony back of his hand flicked for his trouble. He mouths <i>Share</i> at you, as if he doesn’t want to interrupt himself, and you shake your head, as if you don’t want to interrupt him. He sticks his tongue out at you: childish pink. “Like, a jack russell terrier. Those fuckers are small enough.” </p><p>“Spikes and a big nametag that says ‘Killer’,” you say. “We can tie you up in the yard and you’ll try and eat the mailmen.” </p><p>“Wish you would’ve said that before I bought these things, fuck.” Frank jingles something; you glance over to him and in the moonlight the flash of a dog tags stabs you right in the eye. You missed it the first time ‘round, and you’re thankful you did, and you’re thankful you’re sitting down with your knees pulled against your chest, because <i>Frankie</i> is engraved on it in silver-grey block letters, bold as anything. Your heart jumps. It isn’t the only thing that jumps, either— you take a pull off your beer and shift your legs closer together. </p><p>“<i>You</i> bought it, huh,” you say. It doesn't come out dry enough. "With your own money? Not mine? Cool."</p><p>Frank— Frankie— crows, “Hah! Eat that, Mikester, I got a <i>cool</i>—” </p><p>You’re up and walking (shuffling) towards the squat brick bathrooms on the far side of the playground before Mikey has a chance to throw something back (and you think <i>throw</i> may be literal— right before you push open the door and encase yourself in cool, cinderblock silence, you hear the hollow <i>kh-thunk</i> of an empty can connecting with a forehead). </p><p>The door closes with a suction-y whisper not unlike the sound of the automatic doors at Petsmart. An acoustic rendition, maybe. You plant your hands on either side of one of the sinks and look at yourself for a second; a clammy teenager, fat around the face, dark under the eyes. Sweatier and pinker than usual. A shine of something like guilt in the way your mouth is set, how you won’t look even yourself in the eye. </p><p>“Christssake,” you say, just for the sake of it, and clunk your head against the mirror. You’re fucked. You’re fucked three ways from Sunday. You squeeze your dick through your jeans like it’s done something to you. The zipper bites in, sends a feverish wince through your guts. “Christssake,” you say again, quieter. Your breath fogs damp against the mirror and the close heat doesn’t feel any different than how the air is outside.</p><p>“Are you seriously jacking off in front of a mirror?” </p><p>You jolt away from the sink with an embarrassing, stifled swear. You didn’t even fucking hear the door open— of course not, why would things be that easy? You don’t get a heads up for shit like this. You’re the guy who takes every kick in the balls with a question mark still ballooned over your head. </p><p>“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” you say, and as soon as you realize your hand is on your chest in that shocked-old-lady pose, you shove it in your pocket.</p><p>“What, you want me to knock?” He’s still wearing the godforsaken collar. “Public restroom, babe. Anyone could walk in.” </p><p>“Don’t call me babe. Fuck.” </p><p>The <i>Frankie</i> tag jingles against the buckles with every step he takes, jingly little sound that makes you think of dog parks, animals loping across the lawn after tennis balls. “Don’t keep that stick jammed so far up your ass.”</p><p>“What do you want?” you ask. Dull. You feel yourself sweating again even though you’re out of the heat in here, shadowed and sealed off from the summer night; it prickles sharp under your arms, in the soft hollows behind your knees. “Mikey’s gonna come looking for us.” </p><p>“Nah. I found his Discman under the seat— he’s staring at the stars and listening to music and thinking about aliens, or whatever. Dead to the world.” He’s smiling again. His teeth aren’t notably sharp, not like the weird, crooked-out vampire canines that grew in after Mikey’s baby teeth fell out, but— in the only light you have, moonlight filtering through watery glass bricks placed high in the wall— they look a little pointed, a little vicious. <i>Milk teeth,</i> you think, dizzily, <i>Puppy teeth.</i> </p><p>He comes in closer, too close, and you move away so he isn’t nose-to-chest with you, and he just circles right back around until he’s the one backed up against the sinks— which is exactly how he wants it, if you had to guess. “Penny for your thoughts?” he says. His breath washes over your face and it smells like stale beer, your menthol cigarettes, the one-hitter’s worth of weed you let him have after he wheedled you for a half hour; it doesn’t smell good but it doesn’t smell bad. Just as dizzyingly as before, you think about puppy’s breath.</p><p>“I think you should lose the collar.” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“It looks retarded.” </p><p>“Does it?” he says, and stands on his tiptoes to get your faces closer together. “It was Mikey’s idea, y’know. All I wanted was the tag. Thought I could throw it on a necklace, or something.” </p><p>“Great.” </p><p>“It looks retarded, huh.” His hands find yours, and you go to pull away, but before you can he’s feeding the grab loop of the leash into your palm. “Really? You’re sure?”</p><p>“Knock it off.” You try and put some bite into your voice. You don’t let go of the leash. </p><p>“I think,” he says, grinning with all his puppyteeth, “I think you wanna yank me around a little.” </p><p>You try and laugh. It doesn’t come out right. He shuffles close enough your to press your torsos together, mouths <i>C’mon</i>. </p><p>From this angle, his neck craned out so he’s nearly lip-to-lip with you, the gap between his throat and the collar is a sickle of pale skin, a cutout of his collarbones. You loop the leash twice around your fist. You close your eyes. You open them again. You pull, and watch that gap angle out, go from crescent-moon to a dull wide arrowpoint. Frank’s breath catches short in his throat; you don’t hear it, really, you <i>feel</i> it, the absence of moving air, his sternum pressed into your abdomen stuttered and still. </p><p>“Yeah,” he says, fists your shirt, briefly presses his mouth to the edge of your lips, almost against your cheek, “yeah, yeah, thought you were never gonna.” </p><p>You pull harder and he stumbles, falls into you. You make no move to catch him and he doesn’t expect any; he steadies himself with his handfuls of your tee shirt. His hardon rubs across your leg. His shoulders look wobbly. </p><p>“Want me to bark, or some shit? Hump your leg? Tear up a newspaper?” </p><p>“I want you to get down,” you say, hating how easy it is, hating how easy he’s made it for you.</p><p>He drops so quick his knees make a harsh thudding noise on the tile. “Arf-arf,” he says, like a joke, and he’s still smiling but it’s wavering at the edges— eaten away by the blood-bright flush covering the rest of his face. </p><p>“You better not expect me to call you a good boy or something,” you say, “don’t make this— don’t make this freaky.” </p><p>He sticks out his lower lip and does a scarily realistic whine, puppydog eyes and all. Your dick goddamn <i>throbs</i>. </p><p>“You’re no fucking fun,” he says, and starts to say more but you yank up on the leash and he gags to a stop, hands flicking upward, briefly, like he’s afraid you’ll hang him. The look on his face is  both unnerving and priceless; surprise, a touch of fear, all paved over with a dopey kind of bliss. His voice, the sound he makes when all air is caught in his throat, sounds almost like a yip. </p><p>“Yeah, Frankie, that’s making it freaky,” you say, but you’re panting a little. You fumble for your zipper. “Gonna be quick?” </p><p>He nods and smiles all big and shoves your hands out of the way so he can undo your fly himself (and maybe, just maybe so you can have two hands to hang onto the leash with). </p><p>"Good boy," you say, because you're a hypocrite, and you want him to glare at you. He does; eyes narrowed, focused somewhere on your collarbone instead of your eyes, tip of his nose and his cheeks slightly shiny with sweat. He's <i>so</i> fucken' short he can barely reach your crotch kneeling. His chapped lips catch and pull on your dick. Dry mouth, mostly. Gets slicker when you jab at the back of his throat a little— he gags, bringing up spit, but doesn't seem to hate it. His hand on your thigh flutters. More of a twitch. </p><p>He spits, after. Usually, memorably, he hocks your jizz onto the floor like he’s spitting out a clod of snot; this time, he almost dribbles it. As if the back of his throat is too sore and banged-up to even work up a good snotrocket. Guilt rolls over slow in the pit of your stomach. </p><p>“You okay?” you ask, quiet. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I be?” He shoves your kneecap and stands up, cranes his arms over his head to crack his back.</p><p>If you're already being a gentleman— asking him how he's doing, not holding his mouth and nose shut to make him swallow your jizz like you <i>want</i> to do— so you may as well hold the door open for him. He darts out ahead of you like a man on fire. Mikey’s stretched out on the top platform of the playset, either asleep or doing exactly what Frankie told you he'd be doing; staring at the stars and thinking his weird little Mikey thoughts. Sometimes, you think you’d pay all the money in the world to get a look inside your brother’s head. Sometimes you think you miss how it used to be with him. </p><p>And then, as if in a pointed imitation of what you <i>can't</i> do anymore because you're not a kid and your brother still is, Frank scrambles up the red metal ladder and tackles him. You might not have to pay anything to see his brains after all based on how fucking hard his skull smacks the floor. </p><p>“<i>Jesus Christ</i>, dude!” </p><p>Frank laughs. “Whoof.” </p><p>“Fuckoff. Freak.” </p><p>They settle. Mikey pushes Frank up and off him and flops his head over the edge of the platform; his bangs fall away from his face, his glasses slip off his nose and dangle by his forehead. </p><p>“Where the hell were you?” </p><p>“Bathroom— Gee was trying to put a cig out on a roach.” </p><p>“Gross,” Mikey says. He arches his back and tries to heave Frank off his lap. Frank holds onto his shoulders; he brings his face down close and whispers something you can’t hear. His hands slide up to rest on either side of Mikey's ears— or maybe not; from where you’re standing, his head is reduced to a pink nosetip and a hunk of mussed-up hair. Could be his shoulders Frank was reaching for. Could be his neck. Either way, Frank sinks down so his elbows fold up against Mikey's chest, and the small bit of your brother still visible vanishes behind Frank's dark head. </p><p>You fish a hair out of your mouth with your fingertips. You walk back so your back thumps against the brick bathroom wall. You watch. </p><p>Mikey’s hands come up. Mikey’s hands fall back down. You can hear the hollow thud his elbows make on the plastic and, less clearly, you can hear the wet sound of Frank’s tongue sliding past his teeth; the playground is dead silent, not even cicadas to break the silence, just them. Just all of you. </p><p>They break it off— a silver spit-thread stretching from Mikey to Frank, nothing but a spot of glittery reflected light in the dim— and Mikey asks him why his mouth tastes so weird, Jesus, did he eat the roach after he was done cooking it? </p><p>“Nah, I saved it for you. Midnight snack.” </p><p>Mikey wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. Frank glances up and looks right at you; he sticks his tongue out his mouth and winks, just a flash, quick enough your brother won’t notice.</p>
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